


Correction & Reward

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Twitter Requests [6]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Consent Issues, Crying, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Painplay, Power Imbalance, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:57:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23674087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Elias is growing very, very tired of Tim's tantrums.He will correct them as necessary.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Tim Stoker
Series: Twitter Requests [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1703338
Comments: 24
Kudos: 139





	Correction & Reward

Tim actually stopped short at the sudden, impossibly loud slam, of a prim, neatly kept hand against Elias’ desktop. It was Elias’ hand, displaying a strength that Tim would never have expected of him, and Tim stared down at it, at the shine of the rings on Elias’ fingers, at the perfectly manicured edges of his short, neat nails.

“I have allowed you to rant insensibly for some,” Elias said quietly, glancing at the clock on his desk, “seven minutes. That is _quite_ enough.”

Oh, is it?” Tim demanded, sharply, and he moved closer to Elias’ desk, scowling. “Oh, have I talked enough, have I, is that what you’ve decided?”

“I appreciate that you’ve never learned to control your temper, Tim,” Elias said quietly, standing slowly to his feet. Perhaps it would have been intimidating, if he wasn’t five foot eight even _with_ his heeled boots on, if Tim wasn’t able to look _down_ at him even when Elias brought himself up to his full height. “But I’m rather tired of your tantrums.”

“Tantrums,” Tim repeated, unable to keep back the desperate scorn that burned in his throat – he was so angry he could _spit_, could scream, could _die_. He wished he could die. “That’s what you think this is? Sasha _dies_, and Jon goes fucking bonkers, and you trap us all here in your Institute of Nightmares and you call it a—”

Elias held up one hand, one finger raised, and Tim faltered, glancing at it before he looked back to Elias’ scowling expression.

“I have done my best to be patient with you, Tim,” Elias said in a low, foreboding voice, and his blue eyes were dark as he kept Tim’s gaze, unblinking. “Yours would not be the first attitude I have forcibly adjusted, and I will not hesitate if you continue in this vein.”

“Oh, going to just _force_ me to be cheerful, are you?” Tim demanded, stepping forward, closer, leaning down so that their noses were very nearly touching, so that he could smell Elias’ subtle cologne. “What, have you got a creepy eye power for that, too?”

“I think you will find,” Elias murmured, “that I don’t have need of one.”

“Oh, _don’t_ you? Well, forgive me if I don’t—”

Elias’ hand gripped so tightly in Tim’s hair that his knees buckled, and he cried out wordlessly as Elias dragged him over to the couch against the other wall. He was far stronger than he looked, and Tim couldn’t pull himself free even as he put both hands around one of Elias’ wrists, trying to twist away.

Elias dragged him down over his lap in one smooth movement, dropping Tim’s chest over the spread of his thighs with his knees on the floor, keeping Tim’s head down.

“If you insist upon acting like a recalcitrant child, Tim, I will treat you like one.”

“What the fuck does _that_—"

Elias’ hand came down against Tim’s arse in one hard clap, and Tim wheezed. He’d been spanked in his life, sure – he’d had people slap his arse while they were fucking or snogging, had a girl or two put him playfully over their knees in bed – but he’d never been spanked like this, never been dragged so forcibly over someone’s knee and hit so fucking _hard_.

The slap _stung_, then the pain bit deeper, throbbing, _throbbing_, and—

No.

No, no, no, he wasn’t getting _hard_, he would not get hard over fucking _this_, over his evil nightmare boss slapping his hand against his—

The next blow was just as hard, and in exactly the same place. So was the next. Elias rained down a flurry of hard, painful blows, and whenever Tim thought he was adjusting to the burning, searing pain in his backside Elias would adjust the angle slightly, would marginally alter where his hand was coming down, and the pain would flare up anew, would make him feel like he was going to come to pieces over it.

Tim realised he wasn’t protesting, that he wasn’t saying anything, that he was just taking it, groaning and hissing on the worst blows, and he tried to say, “Stop it, you can’t, you _can’t_—”

But that made Elias hit him harder, and he soon went quiet again.

When Elias finally stopped, Tim’s whole arse felt like it was aglow with painful, burning heat, and he knew he’d have bruises come the evening. His thighs were trembling at the pain, his hands shaking where they gripped at the fabric of Elias’ trouser leg, and he was breathing heavy, not able to restrain himself.

His cock was hard. Tim was a slut for pain from the right person, so it wasn’t about Elias, it wasn’t – it was just a physiological response, that was all, one that Elias was obviously doing his best to take advantage of, and it was bollocks, pure bollocks.

“Are you ready to be more reasonable, Tim?”

“Fuck you,” Tim bit out, regretting it as soon as he said it, because the tension in the air was unbearably heavy, and he hated that he couldn’t see Elias’ face, couldn’t see his eyes, couldn’t know – but then, he never knew anyway, even looking directly at him. “Wait—”

Elias very neat about undoing his belt buckle, and his trouser buttons. Tim tried to protest, tried to pull away as he did it, but Elias ignored it easily, and somehow Tim couldn’t bring his hands to stop him, couldn’t kick.

He hadn’t tried screaming for help. He wondered if anyone would come – he wondered if anyone would hear him.

Elias pulled Tim back over his lap with his trousers and his boxers ruched around knees, arse bared, and like this Tim’s hard cock was pressed against Elias’ thigh, and he couldn’t help the babble of his mouth, now, the way he said, “Please, please, Elias, please, don’t, don’t, please—”

“This is for your own good, Tim,” Elias said, and brought his hand down again.

He wasn’t hitting nearly as hard now, but he didn’t need to – the clap of Elias’ palm against bare skin was so much worse than against fabric, no matter that the blows were lighter, and every now and then Elias would _squeeze_ the no-doubt bright red flesh, or drag his trimmed nails over it, making Tim howl.

He didn’t know when he started crying.

He couldn’t really keep track, the world narrowing down to the clap of Elias’ hand against his arse, the burning, stinging pain that followed, the jump of his traitorously hard cock against Elias’ thigh: tears rolled down his cheeks in fat, heavy drops, and he knew he looked awful, but he just couldn’t stop, cried, and cried, cried until his throat was ragged and his cheeks hurt, until he was aware that Elias wasn’t hitting him anymore, but instead stroking the backs of his knuckles over Tim’s abused buttocks, the touch gentle, almost soothing.

“Shh, shh, there, now,” Elias said lowly, and Tim let out the most embarrassing hiccough of noise he ever had as Elias pulled him up on his knees, putting his knuckles under Tim’s chin and forcing Tim to look up at his face. “That’s better. Much better. I do think you might perform better with something other than a bare hand – a crop, perhaps, or a cane?”

Tim whimpered, wordlessly, couldn’t summon up any verbal response – he didn’t have it in him to summon up the anger, the fury, that he’d had before. He was powerless under Elias’ gentle fingers, their stroke over his cheeks, his chin, playing with his hair.

“Such a handsome thing, when you cease the nonsense, Tim,” Elias murmured, and he reached back for a container of something, rubbing it over his fingers. Tim became aware, in a distant, marvelling way, that Elias had taken off the rings on his hand and laid them on the arm of the chair, so that they weren’t on his hand anymore, and was overcome with a sudden, humiliating urge to bury his face in his boss’ lap and keep crying there. It had been a long, long time since he’d cried like this. “Head and shoulders down, please, against the sofa.”

Tim obeyed unthinkingly, the idea of resisting not even coming to mind, and he cried out when Elias’ fingers stroked over his arse, the balm cold and tingling but ultimately _soothing_, and Elias’ hand was so gentle, so gentle—

“Look at you,” Elias murmured, reaching forward, between his legs, and Tim _wailed_ as Elias’ hand, still slick with the lotion, wrapped around his cock from behind, squeezing. He was wet at his head, the slick beading and dripping down over Elias’ hand, and Tim could feel more tears burning at the edges of his eyes, hot humiliation sizzling under his skin. “You can be so lovely, can’t you? You ought give into this side of yourself more often, Tim. So much more appealing than all this impotent rage.”

Tim should have been angry, should have been furious, should have snapped and swore and screamed, but Elias was squeezing his cock so beautifully, and he couldn’t _stand_ it—

“Come here, Tim,” Elias said, letting him go, and Tim raised his head, not meeting Elias’ gaze as Elias dragged him forward, still kneeling, between his legs. Elias was evil. He was evil, he was a fucking all-seeing nightmare, he was responsible for everything, everything that had gone wrong, everything in Tim’s life that had been destroyed, Tim being trapped here _now_—

Elias curled his hands in Tim’s hair and pulled Tim against his chest, and Tim sobbed there. There was something sick about this, something impossibly _sick_ about how comforting this was, how Tim could apparently be broken down with just a bit of pain and then moulded into whatever Elias wanted, whatever he wanted.

“Can you be good for me, Tim?” Elias asked, and Tim gasped in a breath, not answering, pressing his nose tighter against the fabric of Elias’ soft wool jumper, and then he felt the press of Elias’ smooth, neat little Oxford against the underside of his cock. “Bring yourself to a peak, and then we’ll sit you down, hm?”

“Elias—”

“Come now, don’t disappoint me,” Elias said, and Tim shuddered, but ground his hips forward, feeling the smoothness of Elias’ sole as he pressed Tim’s cock up against his belly, and Christ, _Christ_, it should not have felt good, it should have been the most mortifying thing imaginable – it _was_ the most mortifying thing imaginable.

Tim’s sac was still drawn up tight, his cock still twitching, and when he came he choked out the sharpest, breathiest noise, gripping as tightly as he dared at the front of Elias’ clothes.

“So lovely, when you’re in your proper place,” Elias murmured, and Tim whined at the way that made his cock jerk, spurting messy over Elias’ shoes, over his own thighs. “I think a proper discipline might be in order on a regular basis. A bit of maintenance might do your aspect the world of good.”

“You’re sick,” Tim managed to whisper.

“Here you are on your knees for me, your spend drying on my shoes, crying against my belly as a babe cries against its mother’s breast, comforted, and you think I’m the sick one, Tim?”

The blade cut deep. Tim gripped all the tighter at Elias, pressing himself as closely to the monster of a man as he dared, and he didn’t know if it made it worse or better that Elias was so tender about it, that he kept stroking Tim’s hair, kept cooing soft words.

It had been years since Tim fell asleep in someone’s arms.

It shouldn’t have been Elias’.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/dictionarywrite) or [Tumblr](https://patricianandclerk.tumblr.com/).


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